


Blood and Bees

by CosmicCole



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Depression, Fluff, Gen, Guilt, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicidal Ideation, implied romantic interest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-02-01 05:13:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21392392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicCole/pseuds/CosmicCole
Summary: Did I write an angsty ass Sastiel fluff fic? You bet I did. Sam has some self-harming tendencies. Castiel is understanding and sweet. Sam needs someone who gets it. Probably just a cute one-off? May have another chapter. Rating is simply for the dark themes and graphic scenes.
Relationships: Sam Winchester/Castiel
Comments: 2
Kudos: 56





	Blood and Bees

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, Sam self-harms in this. Please be advised that there is an entire scene and lots of mentions of self-loathing, guilt, and suicidal ideations. If that content triggers you please please please do not read it. This was partially a vent fic but also brought on from binging SPN for the 800th time. Also. Mentions of Dean’s addictions and his painfully hypocritical ways.

It started as a way to control his grasp on what was real and what was hallucinations. It was just for clarity. Sam was glad they didn’t mention it to Dean when he got locked down in the psych ward. Twice as glad that Cas was so fried he couldn’t mention it to Dean after he took on the younger’s burdens.

He should have stopped. Cas may have taken his insanity, but he couldn’t take the pain. The self-loathing. The guilt. Always with the guilt. Like a stone in his chest that he couldn’t run away from, couldn’t drink away, couldn’t eat away. This was the only thing. Maybe it was punishment. Maybe it was release. Who knew anymore. He turned the blade in his fingers.

Then the man’s gaze fell to the floor, watching the blood drip on old, off-white tiles, the warmth of it running down his arms was all he felt. No weight. No pain. Temporary relief. So temporary. The sound of his pulse in his ears drowned out the voice in his head. Dean’s voice. Reminding him of what a failure he was. That he was worse than a vampire. The lousy brother. Lousy human. Bad. Bad. Bad.

Another slice, silence again. Save the drip-drip of his blood on stone. Dean betraying him. The fear of losing Amelia. Losing everyone. Losing everything. He chuckled. Red. Betrayal. 

“Sam?” 

Sam looked up. How long had he been sitting there. When did he sit? Everything was warm and fuzzy. He looked down. Had there always been that much blood?

The younger Winchester looked back up at the angel.

“Does Dean know you’re here?” His tongue felt heavy, he felt groggy.

“Sam-“ Castiel knelt down and Sam flinched away.

“Don’t.”

Castiel frowned, the angel gripped his arm and Sam felt heat, white-hot grace, he winced and scowled as he felt the wounds knit back together. He jerked away from the angel’s touch.

“Self mutilation doesn’t suit you,” Castiel spoke, his voice low. Anger or concern? Sam couldn’t tell, but also couldn’t bare the thought of someone else he cared for being mad at him.

“You didn’t answer my question.” The Winchester deflected.

“No,” Castiel settled down beside Sam on the bloody bathroom floor. Sam thought it a shame to see the stains of his weakness on his coat. “Your brother does not know I am here. I was preforming a miracle nearby. I could sense your life-force dimming.”

Sam nodded, letting his head fall back against the wall. He closed his eyes.

“Sam-“

“Can we not,” Sam spoke softly, but his fists clenched.

Castiel frowned a bit. 

“I just wish to know if you were attempting to take your own life,” the angel inquired.

Sam shrugged and the angel felt he wouldn’t get much out of him at this point. They sat there in silence, Castiel listening to Sam’s heartbeat return to normal, Sam trying to shut his mind off. Cas noticed the twitch in his jaw, the circles under his eyes, the slump of his shoulders.

“Why doesn’t he love me anymore?”

Cas didn’t need to ask who. He looked at Sam, the pain in the younger Winchester’s eyes was not unfamiliar. Castiel wasn’t good at stuff like this, he tended to make things worse as well. He was not good at communicating these complexities. 

“He does,” Castiel said, surely Dean would never stop loving Sam, or Castiel, or anyone who ever meant anything to him. Dean was a man of duality, capable of love and rage in the same moment.

“I should have stayed in Hell. It’s where I belong,” Sam was looking at his hands now, voice soft and shaking. His hands shook to match.

Castiel leaned forward and grasped his trembling hands. That seemed to snap Sam out of it. He looked at Castiel, confused.

“If everyone who failed Dean belonged in Hell with Lucifer, there would not be many of us left on this planet,” he explained. Sam’s hands were cold. Castiel reached out with his grace, just gentle traces of it this time, without a second thought, trying to warm him. Instead he was met with waves of depression. This was not news to him. He had known the Winchesters for long enough to know their mental burdens. Dean was an addict. Pills. Booze. Anything to numb him to his rage. He hated himself because he had always loved this life, loved killing, loved being the good soldier. It made him self-righteous but that was a cover-up too, for his self-loathing. Dean was a man lost without this hopeless violence, this quiet war of good versus evil.

Sam was different. Sam was empathetic. A dreamer. Burdened by every hunt, every drop of blood, every failure. His depression was born from abuse and guilt. So much guilt. It was endless, rolling off him in waves. A bad son. Bad brother. Bad man. 

But he wasn’t.

“What do I do Cas?”

Sam was looking at him. So needing. So lost. So aching.

“I do not know,” Castiel said honestly. He looked at Sam’s hands in his own. So much larger than his vessel’s own hands. Castiel thought it was odd that such a large and imposing man could feel so small and weak.

“Atonement, guilt,” he looked at Sam. “The weight of these things and the actions we choose from them. They do not often end well.”

Sam chuckled. “Yeah. You’re right about that.”

Castiel smiled. They always did laugh in the face of pain and bitterness. He reached out with his grace once more, removing the traces of Sam’s blood from the floor and their clothes. The scent of it was making Castiel uneasy. He felt clearer now.

“Do you want some coffee?”

Sam blinked at him, then nodded. Castiel rose, pulling the younger with him. 

“I understand,” Castiel hummed absently as he sat Sam down on the bed and moved over to the coffee pot in the motel room. He scowled at the brand of coffee. In a blink, he was gone and returned with fresh cuban coffee. Sam liked his coffee strong after all. “Dean and his standards...no one can live up to them, not even the man himself.”

He set the coffee pot to brew. He could have made it instantly. He appreciated the scent of the sweet, nutty beans roasting though. 

“Yeah, double standards is more like it,” Sam muttered, bitter and hurt. Castiel could relate to that, too.

“Yes,” Castiel smiled sadly. “Your brother does seem fond of double standards.”

They sat quietly for a few minutes, listening the the garble of the cheap pot as it pumped out aromatic coffee.

“I wasn’t, by the way.”

“Hm?” Castiel turned to Sam. He looked sheepish. Guilty. It was irksome at times, how much one man could blame himself for anything.

“I wasn’t trying to, uh,” he cleared his throat. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”

“Good,” Castiel said simply. “I would deeply mourn your passing. I am not strong enough to resurrect you right now. Given how poor of a job I did last time returning you to your life in one piece, I’m not sure I would attempt it again.”

“Mm,” Sam hummed, non-comital. He rose, fishing some half-and-half out of the small, beat down fridge. He grabbed two mugs as well. 

“Sam,” Castiel grabbed his wrist as he set down the mugs. “I understand you. More than you know.”

Sam studied him for a long moment, eyes sad, seeming so defeated. Castiel could see him wading through thoughts, carefully thinking about his next words.

“I suppose you do,” he finally said. “But it’s not just Dean. I ruin everything I touch.”

He was looking at Castiel’s hand on his wrist.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be happy,” his face twitched, the pain of the statement was hard for him to admit out loud. The coffee pot went silent, leaving them to each other and the scent of warmth and richness between them. 

“Every time I think I can have it,” he looked down, hair covering his face. “It always ends in more suffering.”

Castiel nodded, he understood. He had once told Dean that being brought back again and again was really just a punishment. 

“I guess on some level I do just want it all to end,” Sam’s voice was barely a whisper. 

Sam was caught off guard, to say the least, when Cas wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist and pressed his head into Sam’s shoulder. He stood their for a moment like an idiot, but the angel didn’t seem to mind his delayed reaction. Unsure of what to do with his arms, he draped them over Castiel’s shoulders, relaxing against him. He buried his face in Castiel’s hair. He smelled like sunshine and honey. It made Sam’s head spin a bit. 

“I get it,” Castiel said into his chest. “Some times I also wish it to end. It is understandable, to feel lost and desperate, but you will not always feel this way.”

Was Sam imagining or was Cas squeezing him a little tighter, pressing a little closer? Without thinking Sam met the contact, closing his eyes to just focus on the feeling, the smell of Cas and coffee and copper. 

“Besides, with the lives we lead, we will not suffer this earth and our burdens forever, may as well enjoy it while it lasts, hm?”

Sam chuckled, this time without the note of pain. “Yeah,” he inhaled deeply. “Yeah, let’s enjoy it.”

The stayed that way, perhaps longer than necessary before Sam reluctantly peeled himself away. Castiel seemed content, and Sam felt his heart race and his head spin for reasons other than blood loss. He decided not to think about those things and instead poured them both a cup of coffee. Castiel accepted his and sipped it black, enjoying the strength and purity of the brew, even though caffeine did not effect him and he did not require food or drink. Sam poured so much half-and-half into his it became blonde, and nursed the beverage.

“Thanks Cas,” he eyed the other over his mug. “And not just for the really good coffee.”

“You’re welcome Sam,” he smiled, “I will do it again. Anytime.”

Sam felt warmth. The coffee. His chest. No more angry chatter. Just shoulders touching and thoughts of bees.


End file.
